


Anything (& More)

by rizcriz



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Eliot is a nerd, Fluff, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Season 4 Finale Can Go Fuck Itself In The Mirror Realm, Unexpected Proposal, a really romantic nerd, happy ever after
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 05:34:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19144585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rizcriz/pseuds/rizcriz
Summary: Two days after everything settles down, and a week after they get Quentin back, Eliot tells Margo to have Quentin meet him where they first met.He’s wearing the same outfit, though he’ll never admit the fit has grown a bit snug, thanks to the monsters dietary habits. He’s in the same position he was when Quentin first came stumbling back up to him—lit cigarette in one hand, a hastily made card with Quentin’s name in the other—while he lounges across the stone. All poise and confidence—even, if he’s being honest, right about now his hearts definitely arguing the confidence of it all. If the way it’s pounding anxiously in his chest is anything to go by, that is.But, it doesn’t matter, because he remembers that first day perfectly. And for the bits he didn’t, Margo had been gracious enough to cast a remembrance spell, because, ‘Like hell I’m leaving this all in your hands, El. You have a tendency to screw up when it comes to Q.’





	Anything (& More)

Two days after everything settles down, and a week after they get Quentin back, Eliot tells Margo to have Quentin meet him where they first met. 

He’s wearing the same outfit, though he’ll never admit the fit has grown a bit snug, thanks to the monsters dietary habits. He’s in the same position he was when Quentin first came stumbling back up to him—lit cigarette in one hand, a hastily made card with Quentin’s name in the other—while he lounges across the stone. All poise and confidence—even, if he’s being honest, right about now his hearts definitely arguing the confidence of it all. If the way it’s pounding anxiously in his chest is anything to go by, that is.

But, it doesn’t matter, because he remembers that first day perfectly. And for the bits he didn’t, Margo had been gracious enough to cast a remembrance spell, because,  _ ‘Like hell I’m leaving this all in your hands, El. You have a tendency to screw up when it comes to Q.’  _

And just like that day, Quentin’s late, and the only thing he’s missing is his dorky little tie that Eliot distinctly remembers imagining wrapped up in his headboard. His hairs unkempt and he’s tired, Margo probably hadn’t been gentle about waking him up. Or given him time to shave, given the soft five o’clock shadow across his jaw. He’s even got the adorable little frustrated scowl that crinkles up between his eyebrows. Eliot resists the urge to smirk as he sidles up to the stone.

He throws his arms at his side. “Eliot,” he says, all confused resignation and grumpy tiredness, “What are you doing?”

Eliot pretends not to hear him, kicking his legs out and moving to sit up. He makes a show of appraising him, just like that first day. Though this time it’s less deciding on where on the Waugh Scale of Attractiveness Quentin falls, and more deciding where he should take him the first time he tells him he loves him. Not that hasn’t already been scripted, too. Courtesy of Margo, of course. 

He tilts his head, raising an accusative brow. “Quentin Coldwater?” He tries to replicate the same tone from that day —  of the sheer  _ what the fuck _ value of Quentin’s name. But it comes out more playful and less judgy. Which is probably a good thing, if he’s being honest. After the year they’ve had and the mistakes Eliot’s made, it’s probably best he leaves the condescension in the past. 

Quentin doesn’t look amused. He’s so tired, and Eliot can’t exactly blame him. He’s only been back a week, and most of that time’s been spent in emotional conversation and signing up for therapy. He just blinks up at Eliot, all unimpressed, and sighs, too deep. Apparently  _ he’s _ being the judgey one this time. Which is—wow. It’s  _ fine _ . Eliot can do roleplay. He raises his eyebrows anyways, lifts his chin only slightly, and murmurs. “It’s your line, Q.”

Another sigh. “El—“

“Uh-uh,” Eliot chides gently without really breaking character of the sexy mentor. He shifts his shoulders at that thought, only slightly sucking in the little pudge that tugs on the buttons of his vest. He’s not ashamed of it; Quentin’s seen him in far worse condition. But, something about this moment needs to be perfect. It’s like puppet strings tugging at his posture. Though, if it’s  _ actually  _ Margo playing director, that wouldn’t surprise him. “That’s not your line.”

Quentin’s mouth dips into a thin line and he crosses his arms before taking an irritated step back and looking up at Eliot. Eliot resists the urge to frown, because damn it, Quentin had been so much more awe struck last time. Maybe it is the pudge. He glances down, notes the smooth line of his stomach, and turns his gaze back on Quentin.

He’s still hot, so what the fuck. 

“Uh huh.” Quentin finally breathes.

He’s still unimpressed.

Eliot narrows his eyes. It’s okay. He just doesn’t know where Eliot’s going with this. Once he figures it out, it’ll be like that day back in Fillory when Teddy came back home for the first time. Which is to say, Quentin’s going to be so fucking impressed with Eliot’s superior planning, he’ll have no choice but to drag him to the bedroom when all is said and done and reenact their anniversary night. 

Though, Eliot wouldn’t mind finding that ugly little tie and adding it into the mix. 

Eliot jumps down from the stone, tucking the cigarette between his lips, and moves in close. It’s closer than before; less to intimidate, more in the hopes it’ll make Quentin realize it’s a fun game they’re playing. Quentin’s gaze is still mostly unimpressed, tinged with a slight case of unfair exasperation, so Eliot tilts his head and plucks the cigarette from his lips, and says, “I’m Eliot.” Smirking, he adds the next line, “You’re late.” 

Quentin just keeps staring, and Eliot hesitates for a moment — only mildly worried that it might be too soon, before taking two steps back and turning to the left. “Follow me.”

He makes it all of five steps before Quentin annoyingly breaks script. “Eliot.  _ What is this?” _

Eliot sighs. “Q, you know damn well that’s not your line.” 

“Does that seriously matter?” 

“Yes.” He turns, finally, to look at him. The little furrow between his brow’s only grown deeper, and Eliot just wants to reach up and rub the wrinkles away with his thumb, the way he did whenever Quentin got frustrated with the mosaic. But not yet. He has to stay in character. Relive this moment, but  _ right _ . 

“I don’t remember what I said, Eliot.” 

Eliot tilts a shoulder up and turns around. “Follow me.” 

There’s a frustrated sigh and a temperamental, sleep heavy foot stomp, before Quentin huffs and chases after him. “Where am I?” He asks. Which, he’s skipped a bit, but that’s okay. They’re back on script. Which means it’s okay.

It’s going to be okay. There’s nothing to worry about. The little Margo at the back of his head telling him he’d better not fuck up can shut up, now. Because Quentin’s playing along. Which means he wants to be here. Which means, Eliot hasn’t made a grave mistake. And— and he needs to not head into a self doubt spiral and stay on fucking  _ script.  _

“Upstate New York,” He calls over his shoulder. 

“Upstate? But I was just . . .” There he goes. Eliot grins to himself. “Okay. What is this place?” 

_ And _ Quentin’s starting to sound less sleep angry and confused, and more sleep angry and curious.  _ Win. _

Eliot only takes a beat to settle his heart, and says, as stoically and uninterested as he can, “Brakebills University. You've been offered a preliminary exam for entry into the graduate program.” Quentin stops following, which is par to script, but, damn it.  _ Move,  _ Q. He looks over his shoulder at him. 

He’s kind of just watching him. Not too different from that first day. He sighs again, and tosses his hands out at his sides, and with all the boring resignation his tiny little body has to offer, says, “Am I hallucinating?” 

A smirk ticks at the corner of Eliot’s lips. He debates breaking script and asking if Quentin often hallucinates gorgeous men atop stone walls waiting for him. But, no. He has a plan. So he gives Quentin a curious, tiny judgmental glare, and says, “If you were, how would asking me help?” Quentin’s eyebrows shoot up a bit, but he takes an annoyed step towards Eliot and Eliot clicks his tongue. “Come on or you’ll miss it.” 

He turns on his heel and heads off in the direction of the testing hall. Last time, he’d let Quentin splutter endlessly about how amazing this is, and how it was just winter, and blah blah blah. It’d been before his rambling became an important part of Eliot’s day. Kind of like brushing his hair, or ironing his vests. Without it, his day’s left lacking. Not that he’d ever admit it. He looks over his shoulder, where Quentin’s walking with his hands tucked in his pockets, pouting—which,  _ cute— _ and huffs. “You’re  _ supposed to be _ rambling nonsensically.” 

Quentin looks up at him, glaring from where his hairs started falling in his face. Eliot’s kind of happy it’s started growing back in. Quentin’s more puppy-like like this. And it gives Eliot an excuse to play with his hair if it’s unkempt. Which is almost a guarantee. “You say that as if you listened to me last time.” 

“Oh, touchy.” Eliot chuckles and comes to a halt outside the door of the testing hall; waits for Quentin to catch up. 

“I’m not retaking the test, Eliot. If that’s what you’re up to—no way. I know I died, but this is a  _ bit _ extreme, don’t you think?” He sidles up next to Eliot and glares up at him defiantly. Though his glares never really hold any heat; especially not lately. Now they’re just over exaggerated pouts that make Eliot’s heart go all pitter patter like a lovesick idiot.

Oh hey, that’s what he  _ is, _ isn’t it?

Huh.

Feels weird admitting it. 

Good weird, though. Not the kind of weird it was a year ago that made his heart feel like it was going to tear out of his chest and run away. Not the weird that was more  _ fear  _ than  _ weird. _ Just.  _ Good  _ weird. 

“Now why would that be what I’m up to?” Eliot looks down at him pointedly, before reaching out and grabbing Quentin’s hand. “I actually have something grand and  _ romantic  _ planned and you’re hardly playing along. I’m actually  _ offended, _ Q.” 

Quentin blinks, glances down at their hands, then back up at Eliot. “Wha—I don’t— _ What? _ ” 

Eliot just smiles down at him, feels himself go all soft and mushy and wills it not to show on his face—but Margo’s already informed him half a dozen times that that doesn’t particularly work, so whatever. He just smiles, and squeezes Quentins hand. “Trust me?” 

“You know I do.” There’s not even a single fucking ounce of hesitation in his response. 

The little butterfly that decides to take off in Eliot’s gut at that will be murdered later. 

Swallowing, Eliot steps to the side, still clinging to Quentin’s hand, and motions for him to open the door. Quentin watches him for a beat, before sighing and using his free hand to push the doors open. 

Almost immediately, the sweet scent of petrichor wafts out of the room. Eliot inhales slow, a gentle smile settling on his lips as Quentin’s breath hitches. He lets Quentin tug on his hand and pull him into the room--though it’s not much of a  _ room  _ anymore. It’s not even a perfect recreation of their meadow in the woods, but it  _ is  _ as close as his memories allowed it to be. Quentin’s fingers tighten around his, and he takes another step in, pulling Eliot all the way into the faux woods. The doors close behind them with a soft clicking sound, and Eliot waves his free hand so they disappear behind a few bushes and a big willow tree that isn’t true to memory, per se, but is like the one Quentin used to mention hiding underneath when he was a child. 

“What did you  _ do?” _ Quentin asks, voice barely above a whisper, and without turning to look at Eliot. 

At the front of the room, hidden behind a few tomato bushes and an apple tree, is the cottage. It’s near perfect, if not for the imperfections in it that not even a spell could bring forward. Quentin takes a step towards it; nearly trips over the edges of the mosaic. He catches himself with Eliot’s help, hand gripping his tight, and looks down at it. There’s a design laid out. It hadn’t been a part of the plan originally, but when he’d gone through his memories, he had a clear image of the design that laid partially complete beneath the blanket, and he couldn’t help himself. 

Quentin turns around and looks at him with wide, misty eyes. 

“We haven’t talked,” Eliot says, swallowing down the lump in his throat and ignoring the pang of fear in his chest. “And . . . I didn’t want there to be any doubt.” 

“Doubt?” 

He takes a step in, brings his free hand up, and sets it on Quentin’s waist. “This,” He says, motioning with his eyes around them, “never happened.” The little speck of hope that appeared to have been growing in Quentin’s eyes disappears, like he’s shuttering all his feelings, and Eliot tightens his grip on his hip and continues. “But it’s still here. I was still able to pull it from my mind and recreate it almost perfectly.” He nods down to the blanket folded up on the side of the mosaic. “All the way down to broken seam on our blanket.” 

Quentin swallows audibly, and it takes all Eliot has not to lean down and press a kiss to his bobbing adams apple. “You . . .” He looks down at the blanket, and then back up to Eliot. “You said you had something  _ romantic  _ planned.” His eyebrows do that thing that make him look like a puppy, and Eliot just wants to pull him closer. “What— I need you to—” 

“I love you,” Eliot says, unable to stop himself. His nose stings as his vision goes blurry, and he can’t even be mad at himself, because this is it. This is the shot at happiness he’s always been too afraid to take. The peak he’d been too afraid to climb. “Just because we never lived this life together doesn’t mean it’s not real. Because it was real enough to bring to,” he pauses, frowning, “well. Reality.” His brow furrows. “For lack of a better term.” 

He pulls Quentin closer so their chests bump up against each others. “It’s real enough that you stopped at nothing to get me back. And I went to hell and back to get you back. That life, before, never happened. We never went to Fillory. We never fell in love there. You never married Arielle. We never had Teddy.” 

Quentin’s face falls impossibly further, and he attempts to move back, but Eliot hold them together. “I’m— is this an intervention? Because I—”

“Would you let me  _ finish?” _ He pauses, waits for Quentin to nod, and then slides his hand up Quentin’s side, and over his shoulder, until he can cup the back of his neck. “But that’s okay,” he continues, as if he’d never been interrupted, “because we  _ did  _ go to Fillory, and we became  _ kings. _ And we fought gods. And we  _ did _ fall in love. Here.” He looks up as Quentin’s breath hitches, detaching his hand from Quentin’s so he can wave the first spell away, and let the leaves in the trees overhead start falling all around them, sweeping the meadow away as they drift easily to the ground. 

They watch, together, as the room transforms to the physical kids cottage living room. It’s nothing more than recreation from his memories; the only difference indicating as much is the same quilted blanket folded on the center of the couch, and the sea of orange and yellow leaves at their feet. 

Quentin looks back to him. “El?” 

“I know our lives are messy and we both need, like, all the mental healthcare we can get. And we’ve still got a lot to work through with magic and our friends and Fillory. But,” He swallows and holds his hand out for Quentin’s again. “ _ We _ could eventually get married here. Adopt a couple kids, or maybe get a surrogate. Be happy. Like we were there.” 

Quentin’s gaze falls down to his hand, and he reaches up to weave their fingers together again. “This is a really elaborate display,” He says after a moment, twisting his neck around to look at the rest of the room. “You even got the crack in the nook door.” 

Eliot nods, lets out a little chuckle. “From when Margo accidentally turned Todd into a ram and he panicked and nearly tore the house down.” 

“You  _ say  _ accidentally but you know I know better.” 

He can’t help the smile that forms as he nods. “I do. Know better.” 

Quentin’s eyes crinkles, and he twists his neck around to look at the jean bag chair, then the bookshelves. “Those books don’t have names,” He murmurs, mostly to himself, as his eyes slide along the room, towards the door that should lead to the kitchen, but really leads nowhere, and then to the couches, and finally — finally— back to Eliot. “Two things.” 

“Anything.” 

“You should.  _ Definitely _ know better than to say anything.” 

Eliot tilts his chin down, and squares his shoulder, catching Quentin’s eyes and locking in.  _ “Anything,” _ he repeats, softer. Because he means it. Now, then, whenever. Anything Quentin wants or needs, it’s his. So long as Eliot gets to stay here with him. 

God, how does this feel more perilous than traversing the actual underworld on a stealth mission to bring Quentin back from the dead? 

Quentin’s chin dimples, and he nods, a short little thing, before taking a deep, steadying breath, and saying, “Okay. One. Is— is this a proposal?” 

Blinking, Eliot swallows, because he hadn’t even thought of that. He’d practiced the speech about eighty times in the mirror, and a brief thirty four with Margo, and yes, even once or twice with Todd, but he’d never considered  _ how much _ like a proposal it sounds. Then again, it’d never actually felt like they  _ weren’t  _ married. He shrugs a shoulder. “It could be,” he says. “If you want it to be.” 

Quentin shuffles his feet, leaves rustling around them as he does so. “Do  _ you _ want it to be?” 

Eliot considers him for a moment, before dropping his hands and stepping away from him. Quentin’s hands fall limply to his side, and his eyes go saucer wide as he nods once, twice, three times to himself, but Eliot shakes his head. “Stop thinking whatever you’re thinking,” He murmurs, twisting his fingers around to break away the final part of the spell. The ceiling peels away, etches of wallpaper and magic sprinkling in around them, until the ceiling’s taller and the room’s open with light shining in through a balcony, and four thrones sit behind Quentin. 

He doesn’t turn around to look, but he knows the battle table is behind him, candles lit and a meal set atop it. “I wasn’t planning on proposing,” he says, as he moves around Quentin and leans down to pick the blanket up off the floor, carefully dusting leaves and wallpaper off the top of it. The ocean of leaves follow him as he twists back around and shuffles the blanket into one hand and holds the other out for Quentin. “But that’s because I didn’t think I’d need to.” 

“I’m confused.” 

Eliot nods. “Take my hand, Q.” 

Quentin looks down at his hand, before reaching up and clasping them together again. “Is the picnic in the throne room the big romantic gesture?” 

“No.” 

“Then what is?” 

He pulls Quentin over to the table and squeezes Quentin’s hand. “What was the second thing?” he asks, as he unfolds the blanket with one hand, and shakes it out. 

“Second thing?” 

“You said you had two things. What was the second thing?” When Quentin doesn’t say anything, he pauses his ministrations and turns to look at him. “What?” 

“You want to— are you sure you want this?” He licks his lips and looks down at the ground between them. Eliot follows his gaze, lips twitching as Quentin kicks at the ground and a wave of leaves ripple up against his legs. Quentin looks back up. “Us. I mean. Are you sure you want  _ us?”  _

Eliot watches him for a beat, before nodding to himself and draping the blanket over the side of the chair closest to him and moving in so he’s crowding into Quentin’s space, leaning in over him, so Quentin has to look up at him from beneath his eyelashes. “We’re idiots,” Eliot murmurs, “and we keep running from this because we’re afraid of being happy.” He slide his free hands up, grazing along Quentin’s palm, then his arm, and settling on his bicep, holding there for a moment. “I don’t want to run from you anymore, Q.” He pauses, unsure of how to phrase the next part. 

Quentin takes the silence as his turn to speak. “I stopped running from you a long time ago,” He says, leaning up on his tip toes to press their foreheads together. His eyes close, and he holds there. 

“I  _ lost _ you,” Eliot breathes, inhaling slow and letting the words settle around them. Quentin’s feet go flat against the ground, and the soft warmth of skin contact disappears with it. “I don’t want to lose you again.” 

“You won’t.” 

Eliot nods. “I know,” He says, smiling, a barely there twitch of the lips. “This whole thing has gone upside down and sideways. But I. I just wanted to tell you that I’m in love with you, and I want to try this. You and me.  _ Here. _ in the real world where awful things happen, and there are beautiful women that don’t hold a candle to me—” Quentin surges up and whatever words Eliot’s got in him die on his tongue as their lips come together, and Quentin’s hand comes up to weave into Eliot’s hair, tugging him down and against him. He slides his hand up the rest of the way over Quentin’s shoulder and grabs onto the back of his neck, pulling him in impossibly closer, and inhaling noisily through his nose. 

Quentin pulls away first, barely far enough that their noses still graze against one another as they breathe. He drops Eliot’s hand so his can join the other at the back of Eliot’s neck, twisting and tugging the locks of hair there. He smiles up at him, eyes crinkling in that way they do when he’s happy, and tugs sharply at a strand of hair. “Am I hallucinating?” He asks, tilting his head. 

Eliot rolls his eyes, leaning and bumping their noses purposefully. “If you were,” he replies, script still stuck in his head, “how would asking me help?” Quentin’s eyes, somehow, get brighter and crinklier, and Eliots heart does a little dance that’s probably not good for his health, and he presses their foreheads together again. “I change my answer,” He adds after a moment.” 

“Huh?” 

“Ask me if this is a proposal again.” 

He blinks up at him. “You’re not serious.” 

“You’d be surprised,” Eliot says, “I’ve learned how to be serious as of late. Ask me.” 

He swallows audibly, and it’d be cute that he’s nervous if not for their history and Eliot’s own anxious, readily rising blood pressure. “Okay,” He says, nodding, and narrowing his eyes determinedly. He pokes the back of Eliot’s neck with one finger. “Is this a proposal?” 

“Yes.” Eliot smiles down at him. “Now this is the part where you tell me if you—” 

“I know how a proposal works.” 

“Well, you’re not  _ acting _ like it.” 

“I hate you.” He shakes his head, but he’s smiling as he tugs on Eliot’s hair again. “And yeah. Yes. Yes, Eliot. Of— you know I.  _ Yes.” _

A grin blooms on Eliot’s lips and he leans down to press it to Quentin’s. “Do you know what this means?” He asks against the soft skin there. He doesn’t wait for Quentin to respond, though, as he answers his own question. “We’re skipping boyfriends and going directly to fiancès.” 

“Margo won’t let that last long.” 

Eliot hums, with a giddy thought that no, no she won’t. “We’ll be married before the end of summer.” 

“Is that a bet?” 

“No.” He pulls away and looks down at him meaningfully. “A promise.” 

Quentin’s breath and he nods. “Okay.” it’s quiet, a little breathless, but there’s no hesitance or confusion beneath it. “Okay,” he repeats, “End of summer.” 

“End of summer.”

Quentin beams up at him. “Are we going to eat the food or—” 

“I mean, we’ve got a perfectly good blanket to christen, and this room is ours for at least two more hours. And, we’ve got magic to warm the food up later—” Quentin pushes up, and eagerly shuts him up with another kiss. Eliot laughs into his mouth, reaching blindly behind him to grab the blanket.

 


End file.
